


Lowly Elves

by Glenstorm63



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Haven of the Swans, Taniquetil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:54:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27980322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glenstorm63/pseuds/Glenstorm63
Summary: Telamdir bemoans the fate of the lower classes of elves in Aman, but decides he has much to be thankful for.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 6





	Lowly Elves

**Author's Note:**

> We only ever get to see Elves as leaders, Elves as infantry in battle, Elves as guards at gates, tents or on frontiers, Elves as delerious singers in trees, or Elves as royal hangers on. Just once, we get to meet Thranduil's butler and the hacks who send out the barrels from his halls. So we know there is a working class and a merchant class. What is it like for them, being in the same job for several thousand years? Here is a humorous try at working that one through.

It is alright for them. They plan their celebrations.

They forge their leading family alliances with great marriages and unforgettable weddings.

They work at their forges and looms, making unimaginable things under the tutelage of the Maia.

And they drag us along in their wake over the long centuries, to do their bidding.

They call themselves Kings and Lord This and Lady That. They posture and sit on their thrones and deal out judgement to miscreants. As if we needed it.

After the proud and dangerous Noldor nobles murdered us and stole our ships, under the noses of the Valar, they escaped direct punishment for their fell deeds right here on these shores, only taking war to the farther lands. They committed their own people to breed and fight wars for several millenia. All for a few gems, whilst we were plunged into darkness.

We know which side our bread is buttered and we manage our own affairs.

But I am being rude. I must introduce myself. My name is Telamdir. Born to an ordinary mother and an ordinary father, both of the Teleri, my brothers and I live in the shadows of the Pelori, next to the Haven of Swans.

For several thousand years the dark, rippling waters that look east into the great nothingness was our companion, with only the distant glow of the Trees over the Pelori our main reminder of the bright Valinor that Orome had once convinced us we were going to be basking in.

Mother and father talked in nostalgic terms of their early lives in Cuivenien. But it all sounded rather rustic to me and they could never tell me how they made clothes. Long white gowns apparently. Go figure.

Now of course, since the sun arose, there are palm trees and flowering vines, smart cafes and the sea is bright blue, so it is much better. And we still see the stars at night. Closer than ever, now we are removed from the circles of the world. I am not sure how that works with the sea, but I digress. Even the Vanyar come here now when they can find an excuse, to escape the chills of Taniquetil, colder than ever. So after our long suffering, we really have it better than they do.

Now my mother and father had run an inn on the waterfront for close to seven thousand years. They had to replace the front step five and forty times as it got worn by the countless feet. In the first three thousand years, every board of the place was turned into firewood at least two score times, after being replaced. Woodworm remained a constant menace.

Deputations to our king, Olwë, got nowhere. He is just plain useless, still moping after his long lost brother, now rumoured to be in the Halls of Mandos after some idiocy with those cursed Noldor gems. So we went above him. We wrote to Eonwë. He even came here himself. But despite this hopeful turn of events, we again got nowhere. We thought he might be able to twitch his nose and instantly fill all the timbers with some stabiliser and preservative, so we could carry on for eternity. Forget it. Still caught up in the glory of having tied up Melkor in chains and thrust him through the gates of night. Flared his nostrils. Tossed his head around like some vain glorious young blood. Even had his collar turned up. Save us! Woodworm? So we gave him a glass of our best whisky, hoping it would get him in the mood. But he just dissolved into pink mist. Phffft! That was it. Then the woodworm went into overdrive.

So my mother said she was "leaving and going home to mother" until it was burnt to the ground. But it turned out her mother had done exactly the same thing to her husband just before my mother arrived.

So my mother gave my grandfather a hand up the coast. But she only ended up in servitude, weaving sails, the thing she hates most and the thing her mother ran from.

The monotony of life immortal.

Then she sent a letter threatening to never return and to go to the lands further west. For "a new life of adventure and mental stimulation, unless..."

Father knew what she was saying. So we had to come back off the fishing boats my brothers and I. A welcome respite really. We thanked our mother... for a while. We went quarrying with father. Had to apply for a special licence. We now have a new inn made from pink sandstone and we added an extra storey. We built it ourselves. It shows, but hey, it's ours. It looks okay on the waterfront. The stone masons refused to assist. We dragged every stone ourselves as beasts of burden are outlawed here. From go to woe, it took four and twenty years of the sun.

My father excels at making ales and spirits, but he was bored. How could he not be after this span of years? Once the new inn was built, he seemed to get a new lease on life and mother came back. Even so, they had a real ding dong argument. Turns out she had suggested stone a couple of thousand years ago which he had poo pooed and he had forgotten to include install the conservatory in the design she had been slogging away to pay for, for the last five hundred years.

Then it was his turn to have a hissy fit and walk out. Said he was not going to be spoken to like this after all he had done.

He made his way to the home of an old Vanyar aquaintance up on Taniquetil. From there, he joined a community of meditation. He now sits cross legged most of the time with his eyes closed and only gets up to eat, ablute and stoke the furnace. They need it there.

He said to me once that he couldn't understand why the elven people are burdened with immortality at all when they are also blessed with children. A worthy point! Lucky we tend to have small families, else all Aman would be covered in houses and vegetable gardens, with no wilderness left and the food supplies would tighten.

As it is, the sanitation is dreadful. The Haven of Swans might as well be renamed The Haven of the Pongs. Eru sure didn't think that one through when he made us both immortal and fertile.

Mother turned Father's rooms into a conservatory and we now keep her in the manner to which she has become accustomed. So she's happy enough. She grows tropical plants now and my brother works the buttery.

We look forward to an eternity of this. But I should be thankful. I shudder to think of the endless lives of the night soil collectors up on Túna.

...


End file.
